


Finally Silence

by Reccea



Category: 1776 (1972), American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reccea/pseuds/Reccea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Must you always think?" Thomas begins loosening the cravat, to get better access to shirt buttons. "For once can't you just act?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally Silence

Thomas locks John's arms up over his head. The light is low in Thomas's room, only one candle flickering shadows against the walls. In the near darkness Thomas leans in to lick a long trail up John's neck and then whispers softly, just above John's mouth, "I thought I told you to be quiet."

John opens his mouth to respond, most likely to object, so Thomas swallows the words with a kiss. His free hand is making slow work of John's vest. John isn't struggling but his breath seems to catch when the last button is loosened. Thomas pulls away for a moment, long enough to tug the vest off John.

"I really think that-"

"Must you always think?" Thomas begins loosening the cravat, to get better access to shirt buttons. "For once can't you just act?"

"You'd prefer me not to talk then." John's hands cover Thomas's stilling them.

"I'd prefer you not to argue. There is a difference."

"Thomas..." Hesitation lingers, uncertainty. And to Thomas it is almost amusing. He has finally found something that John Adams is unsure about.

"We've been dancing around this for months." Thomas shakes off John's hands and starts working on the cravat again. "You can't back down now." He leans down, kissing John again, soft and yielding to give Adams some sense of control.

"I don't think this is a good idea." Even as he says it, John is pulling Thomas closer, his voice a gentle murmur on skin.

"Now is hardly the time for thinking, John." The cravat is loose and now hands are seeking out shirt buttons.

"I think this is the most I've ever heard you say at one time." John's laughter is breathless but the uncertainty runs strong underneath it still.

Thomas pushes one button open and then a second. He slides his hand in, just to feel the skin underneath and finds again more clothing. His frustrated sigh is nearly a growl.

John chuckles again, this time less uncertain. "Try not to rip off the buttons, Jefferson." His smirk is extremely familiar.

"Must you be wearing so many clothes?" Jefferson is nimbly going through the buttons, trying to hasten the process and not entirely succeeding.

"Tell me you're wearing less," comes the amused reply. John reaches out to cup Thomas' cheek but he seems to think better of it and instead slides his palm further until fingers meet hair.

"This would be easier if we were on the bed," Thomas says as he reaches the last button. He tugs at the shirt until it comes slowly out from John's pants and his thin fingers begin work on the undershirt as well.

"I really don't think it would. Have you ever tried taking off clothes while lying down?" John is working slowly at the tie in Thomas's hair, relieved and distracted now that he's found a task.

"Yes." Thomas looks up from his crouch, a glint in his eye. "It's rather fun, actually." Cuffs are unbuttoned and John is divested of first his shirt and then undershirt, the latter pulled off over his head. John doesn't stand a chance and soon he is pressed down against the slight roughness of Thomas's quilt, with Thomas above him, a brilliant smile on the normally thoughtful features.

John feels uncertain again, for a moment, his bare chest against Thomas's vest. But he wants this. He pulls Thomas down, mouths crashing against one another as he quells the objections inside.

Thomas settles down against him, kissing him languidly and purposefully. Focus seems to narrow down to lips and those areas still clothed. One hand is on John's face and the other is skimming bare skin, mapping a path downward. There are small dark ink spots now on John's chest, left by newer stains on Thomas's fingers. They leave a trail and John almost laughs but instead he whispers, voice a little rough "You're wearing too much, Thomas."

Thomas stills; surprised by the way John says his name. The huskiness in his voice. He moves a little, nips at the bottom of John's ear and says, "I suppose I should rid myself of the offending garments?" At John's almost impatient nod he licks John's ear and then breathes out, his voice softer than a whisper, "You're welcome to help." Thomas would have looked predatory if he weren't suddenly splayed on his back. Being pressed down into pillows, sheets and a few random bits of paper as John works on the buttons of his vest.

The vest is open and the cravat takes a bit more work than John's did. "You southerners and your silly neck ties," John mutters after long minutes of trying to untie the intricate knotting. Thomas knows better than to take offense because it's a comment born of frustration and he's driven to distraction by being the cause. By being the center of John Adams's attention. His single-minded determination. And there's a reason Thomas was attracted to that determination in the first place.

The cravat is finally, blessedly gone and John unbuttons the top button of Thomas's shirt. The bare skin of Thomas's neck is exposed and John doesn't think before he places a kiss there and then again, just for good measure. Thomas laughs as if it maybe tickled but the laugh is strained and John keeps unbuttoning.

The shirt is unbuttoned and spread apart, baring a finely muscled chest. "No undershirt?" John asks, though his hands are busy un-tucking the shirt.

Thomas raises his back a little to help in the un-tucking and grins. "Didn't want too many layers. Just in case."

John isn't buying it. "And it's too damned hot?"

"Maybe that too," Thomas concedes. There is no awkwardness and no hesitation as Thomas's shirt is slid off his shoulder and down his back. Dropped by the side of the bed. This kissing is harder now, filled with purpose. There's tickling from five o'clock shadows and one doesn't mind while the other rather enjoys it. There's no grappling, no wrestling. Just hands skimming hard on flesh leaving ink stains.

It doesn't stay like this for too long, it can't really. It has taken too much and too long to get to this place and now there is no backing down, no more waiting. Surprisingly it is John who takes the first step, whose fingers brush against the buttons of Thomas's pants. But he circles the buttons, teases the skin at the waistband. Hesitates.

"Don't stop," and this time there is no mistaking it. Thomas is definitely growling. John finds that he quite likes that reaction.

It's such a small thing to be such a big step and once the button is folded under and through the hole in the cloth John thinks he should breathe easier. Only he finds it's harder to breathe, so much harder. He doesn't unbutton all the way and instead slips his hand inside thinking that it would be easier this way. Easier to go by sense of touch, to go in blindly, like he has been this whole time. Thomas stills under his touch, breath seeming to freeze in his chest.

Then it's a long slow pull, soft skin riding over hard muscle. And it's different but not bad. Definitely not bad. And Thomas, smiling, still seems to have forgotten how to breathe. Push up and then pull down slowly still until he develops a rhythm and the look on Thomas's face is telling him that maybe he's not half bad at this. Maybe even good.

There are little murmurs of encouragement and then other buttons are undone so as to gain better access. And John finds it really kind of amusing what kind of noises a well-timed twist can bring about. He does find it assuring that other variations are followed by just as desirable noises, and, yes he could get used to this. Happily so. Just the breathy comments are enough to convince him, and the thrumming of blood through the skin against his palm.

Thomas, for his part, is hardly aware of what it is he's saying. Four senses have faded way leaving simply touch, which is more than enough for him. Unbelievable his mind keeps saying, unbelievable that this is John, this is now, and everything's so much more than good. He's probably speaking less coherently, though normally he's not a talker. But this isn't normal and John would not have found silence promising.

When John bends over him to kiss the sweat-sheened skin of his stomach, while his hand is continuing with a fair amount of invention, Thomas seems to lose his sense of sight entirely. There's just his own hands in hair that is still tied back, though unkempt, and a warm hand on him.  
A warm hand and a warm mouth against his stomach, moist breath driving him mad. All of it driving him mad really. Insanity seems like a very nice place right about now.

It builds and builds until it pushes past everything. It's over but like an impact, pushing out his breath. Even touch goes away and he's in this place where insanity goes in and out, and the light too. And yes. Definitely yes.

He comes back slowly to himself, each sense taking it's time until he's got his sight and he thinks he misses the taste of John. So he pulls him up and over for a kiss, hard and lasting. John gives as good as he gets, boldness returning at some point, and bold is how Thomas likes him actually.

There are long moments when they just lay there, kissing, and enjoying the feel of being pressed against each other. Just enjoying the feel of each other.

"You're still wearing clothes," Thomas says, his lips still pressed on John's. John doesn't really understand him, doesn't particularly care, because Thomas has a rather talented mouth. But John is pressed hard against Thomas with a layer of cloth between them and this is apparently unacceptable.

Thomas pulls away from the kiss with teasing nips at John's bottom lip and then his chin. He follows the ink trails down his neck and over shoulders. Tracing the path with his tongue while perfectly calm hands undo buttons and pull pants down and away. Until his lips are at the base of John's stomach and John's breath is the only sound in the room.

He descends lower still, quite focused now and strikingly aware of what all five of his senses are telling him. Thinking about how he likes the taste of John's mouth and this, this, should be good. He licks down to tease and John stops breathing. He opens and surrounds and John's breath is back accompanied by a strangled sound that has to be from low in his throat.

Funny that when John thought about this, and he had thought about it, he never figured Thomas would feel like this. Or that Thomas would give more than he was given. But his thinking is slowing down, consciousness abandoning him to a storm. Surrendering him to proclamations and fevered rants and promises. John is a talker.

 

Thomas knows exactly what he's doing but John doesn't question it, doesn't ponder. Mostly because he really can't think anymore. Thomas's roaming hands and clever tongue are the centers of John's world at the moment. They are the single focal point of his life with everything else falling away to talented ministrations.

Thomas's hands still on his hips, gripping. That mouth, that talented mouth is doing things John will never be able to describe. Never be able to remember quite clearly. And the feelings evoked, the sensations, wash over him. A strong pull of the tide down and wet heat is the only certainty left in John's mind. It is the only thing that matters.

It's over too soon; he was far too ready. The silence afterward isn't deafening because there's deep, gasping breathing from both of them. Thomas kisses him and though he tastes odd John finds that he doesn't mind at all. John, in fact, thinks he could get quite lost in this and really very used to it. Also he thinks he might never be able move again.

Thomas says to stay and John can't drum up enough energy to argue. Which means Thomas really has found a way to finally shut John Adams up. Not that he'll be sharing this with anyone else. He pulls the smaller man under the covers and then blows out the flickering candle at the bedside. And Thomas thinks to himself, as he gives in to his sated exhaustion, that the morning should be interesting.


End file.
